


Ian!

by Eireann



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 09:07:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2185911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eireann/pseuds/Eireann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Under that sober exterior, Malcolm Reed harbours a sense of humour.  Can he play a prank on the rest of the crew of Enterprise and get away with it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Star Trek and all its intellectual property is owned by Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no profit made.
> 
> Author's Notes: This story was inspired by the video of Dominic Keating's performance in 'Fierce Blue Ascot', which may be viewed on YouTube at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iAoK19Httyw.
> 
>  
> 
> Warning: This may require a little stretching of the imagination, so please don't take it too seriously.
> 
> Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom I am, as always, indebted.

“Set course for Jupiter Station, Travis.”

At these words, uttered by his captain with something of a sigh, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed looked up thoughtfully.

It wasn’t as though the return wasn’t expected.  No ship of the size of _Enterprise_ could carry sufficient provisions and materiel for an extended voyage such as theirs, and their course was roughly planned to take them to their present point, at which it would be prudent to turn for home and revictualling.  Some engine parts needed replacing, their food stocks were running rather low, and Trip’s engineering stores reported that some of their supplies of various metals were inadequate for some of the necessary repairs to the ship’s superstructure to have been as good as they should be.  On his own account, certainly, various encounters with unfriendly parties had resulted in their using so many torpedoes that the armoury reserves were starting to become worryingly depleted.  The ship was designed to recycle a great deal, but even the most up-to-date methods were incapable of making her completely self-sustaining.

Nevertheless, the journey back to the Sol system was hardly likely to offer much by way of adventure.  There might be a few planned personnel changes, but no shore leave was scheduled; it was a dutiful pit-stop, no more, and the look of resignation that crossed Travis Mayweather’s face as he laid in the necessary course changes was a fair reflection of the mood that would take hold of the majority of the crew for the next couple of weeks.  They had set out to be explorers, after all.  They might understand the logistical necessities of the voyage, but returning home for nothing more interesting than revictualling and rearming was hardly the event of the century.

He himself greeted the development with a measure of relief – those depleted torpedo stocks had been weighing on his mind – but he could nevertheless find it in him to sympathise with the younger and more impulsive members of the crew.  Nothing much of interest had happened for the past three weeks, and the prospect of even more tedium was hardly likely to appeal.  It was true that as the man responsible for the ship’s safety he was the one person on board who was likely to rather enjoy a period of tranquillity, but that didn’t mean he didn’t share the hope of coming across something interesting; he was simply more likely to ask awkward questions about whether it was ‘interesting _as in_ _dangerous_ ’ before getting all excited about it.

 So.

It was obviously completely unthinkable that the ship should defer the return home just because they’d had a few quiet weeks and wanted to do something more interesting.  That being self-evident, he mused, was there any way in which the visit could possibly be enlivened?

On the surface, it seemed extremely unlikely.  There was a tightly-controlled schedule for such affairs; the ship would spend as little time as possible at the station before departing again.  The station itself was very much a working environment and there was a great deal of work to do.

Nevertheless, it should not beyond the realms of imagination to contrive _something._ With half-closed eyes he surveyed his Tactical Station, seeing the displays showing nothing to cause him the slightest concern.  Perhaps he was getting bored too.  Perhaps a little too bored for his own bloody good, because the idea that had just floated into his head was tantamount to suicide if he was found out.

Maybe it was out of the question anyway.  It had been a long time.  He still remembered the contacts – a good memory was one of the things that had been vital in his old life – but who knew how many of them were still in the business? 

But it wasn’t as though what he was contemplating was against the regulations.  At best it was a little playful deception, and who aboard this ship would ever suspect him of contemplating such a thing?  And it would be good to meet up with the gang from that particular op again, if it could be arranged.

_If_ it could be arranged.  He glanced across at Hoshi, his gaze veiled.  He would have to be very, very careful.  The Section had trained him well, but he’d be pitting himself against the best comms officer in the fleet.  He’d have to set up a series of exchanges with the technical people on the station – that in itself would occasion no remark if he cleared it with the captain first, in Hoshi’s hearing.  His transmissions were always monitored, quite unbeknowns to anyone on _Enterprise._ So far, there had been nothing for anyone to hear.  If necessary, however, he could enter a code that meant that the attached message had quite a separate destination.

Would they buy it?  Even that was unlikely.  He’d have to put up some kind of plausible reason that his old handler would swallow.  Facilitating a ‘prank’ on the entire crew of the ship would hardly be something that Harris would normally sanction.  Or would he?  Would he supply the rope, hoping that his talented ex-protégé would use it to hang himself?  Would he smile that grim little smile, and pass on the message?

If it happened, it would be risky.  It would be _astonishingly_ risky.

It would be a challenge.  It would be an _astonishing_ challenge.

If he was found out, everything would depend on Captain Archer’s reaction.  It could earn him anything from an official reprimand to a slap on the wrist.

His gaze moved to T’Pol.  He had the utmost respect for the Vulcan’s powers of observation.  _There_ , if anything, would be the sticking point.

Would his old skills still be up to the job?

Was it really worth the risk?

At that moment Hoshi heaved a sigh.

“Sure is going to be dull back there,” she said.


	2. Chapter 2

_"Who?"_

Malcolm's accent was more marked than usual, Hoshi noted with a grin. His nostrils were flaring with disgust, another sign of his acute displeasure.

"I was sure you'd want to meet him, Lieutenant," she protested demurely. "Him being English too."

Reed's glare suggested that if she'd indeed thought any such thing, it had been a miscalculation of truly astronomical proportions.  "I assure you, Ensign, there are a virtually _unlimited_ number of things that I would prefer to be doing with my free time rather than waste it watching a talentless, effeminate so-called 'singer' masquerade as 'entertainment'. As I understand it, this person retired some years ago after an extremely brief and far from exemplary career. I absolutely fail to understand why he should have decided to resurrect it at this moment in time, and quite frankly if all I'm going to hear from every female member of the crew for the next fortnight is brainless babble over this Ian bloody Westbury, I'll probably shoot the moron the minute he comes on board, in sheer self-defence!"

"Soundin' a mite jealous here, Loo-tenant," Trip interjected with a sly twinkle.

Malcolm bestowed on him a freezing stare that couldn't have been bettered by one of his own phase cannons, and gave him to understand that he was not even the _least_ bit envious of the excitement engendered by the anticipated treat.  Even, his demeanor implied, if Hoshi _was_ one of those who were guilty of mentioning the hated name at every opportunity, and one of the worst of the number who were displaying a reprehensible inclination to make _Eeee!_ noises at the prospect of actually meeting the star in person.

If Trip had been in the habit of adapting classical quotations in order to make a point, at this point some appropriately modified variation on 'Methinks the lady doth protest too much,' would have been forthcoming.  As it was, he contented himself with a knowing grin before tucking into his pasta.

"At least I can count on one of the officers keeping a sense of proportion," the tactical officer grumbled, picking up his PADD.  "Perhaps T'Pol will give me a game of chess while everyone else on board is out of their senses."

Hoshi shook her head so vigorously that her ponytail flew.  "Didn’t you hear her when we were talking about it yesterday?  She's coming too, she said it would be – what did she say, Em?"

"'A valuable insight into one of the more obscure aspects of Human sub-culture'," the Armory Gamma-shift head produced with a grin. " _Estás solo_ , Patrón!"

Her department head somehow contrived to produce an expression of incredulous disgust that was more concentrated than all of its precursors put together.  "I don't believe it!" he said bitterly.  "The one person on board I'd counted on to uphold the standards of civilised behaviour, and she's going to flock along with the rest of the sheep. Well, don't expect me to be there going _'baaa'_ with the rest of you.  _I_ shall be in my quarters, improving my mind. And don't even _think_ about trying to talk me around." With which awful pronouncement he rose and stalked out of the Mess Hall, the very image of a man whose every cultural standard has been outraged.

Freed from the oppressive presence of so much resolute indignation, the small group gathered around the table were free to give their enthusiasm full rein. 

Possibly the female members of it were the more enthusiastic.  However, such an occasion was so momentous that it was even capable of inspiring excitement in the younger, male members of the crew.  Travis was one of these.  He was beaming at the prospect. 

“He’s a total _legend!_ ” he said now, for the dozenth time.  “It’s such a shame the band just decided to retire.  Nobody ever knew why.  Their debut album was awesome!”

‘Fierce Blue Ascot’ were a band who had belonged to a ‘revivalist’ genre, dedicated largely to recreating the music of past eras.  ‘Ascot’ had specialized in the music of the late 1900s – the 1980s, specifically – and had garnered rave reviews for their accurate recreation of the mood and sound of the time, insofar as could be gleaned from the video recordings that had survived WWIII and the subsequent conflicts before humanity finally came to its scattered senses.  They had been notable chiefly for the outrageous appearance and behavior of their ‘front man’ Ian Westbury, whose persona was such that he appealed equally to young people of both sexes and induced in their elders the profound sense that the world had gone to hell in a hand-basket.

Fortunately for the peace of mind of the older generation, the band’s professional existence had been brief.  After that popularly acclaimed debut album, they had released a second – to equal raptures – and then abruptly announced that they were retiring.  The girl members of the band were occasionally seen in various venues, but Mr. Westbury himself had vanished.  Impassioned pleas from his many fans had failed to elicit any information regarding his whereabouts or current status, and in time his memory had faded somewhat.  Revivalists sighed nostalgically when the evergreen ‘Under The Moon’ was played, and it was widely held that their chart-topping cover of ‘Leave Me To Bleed’ had been a classic of the genre, but Fierce Blue Ascot and their two albums sank gradually into legend.

And good riddance to bad rubbish, said some.

The younger members of the crew of Enterprise were not among that number, so when during one of their rare visits to Jupiter Station for revictualling and upgrades the captain had announced out of the blue that they were to be favored with a special one-off performance by the band while they were in dock, the news was met with incredulous delight - at least, in most quarters of the ship.

The excitement was heightened by the degree of secrecy that was to attend the occasion.  One of the conditions attached to the performance was that all knowledge of it was to be kept from the music press – at a guess, the reclusive star did not want a resurgence of the hysteria that had characterized his band’s brief period of fame.  The crew, it seemed, were to be privileged with a private performance. 

Quite how or why this had come about, nobody seemed to know.  Even Captain Archer appeared slightly baffled.  He had evidently not been among those caught up in the revivalist frenzy, and although even he had heard of the band, he’d had to be ‘filled in’ on the importance of the event by his helmsman.  T’Pol had listened in too, looking austere, but on discovering that Trip was among those who intended to grace the occasion with his presence, she had evidently reversed her original decision that it was not a facet of Human civilization from which she was likely to gain any particularly useful insight.

However, it was now a settled thing.  For good or ill, the concert was scheduled for the following evening, and some of the shuttles from the station had begun to bring over the minimal PA system that would be required for the event.  It was to take place in cargo bays 4 and 5, which were fortunately empty – in the course of preparing the ship for the next part of the voyage they would be filled, but right now they were available for any use.  They were two of the largest storage areas the vessel contained, so there would be ample space for the concert – after all, only the crew were invited – but perhaps the additional work entailed in issuing security clearances for the sound and lighting crews had been one reason for Lieutenant Reed’s ire.  He had certainly hovered irritably around the area while the staging was being set up, and complained that the power drain might affect the test figures for the latest armory simulations.  Eventually Trip sent him away, soothing him with the promise that the power flow would be modified suitably.  Not, however, before teasing him that it was no use hanging around hoping for an autograph, because the star hadn’t gotten there yet.

Apparently the head of the Armory was _not_ ‘hanging around hoping for an autograph’, although as he stalked away he muttered that there was a portion of his anatomy that Trip might like to autograph.  At least, that was the gist of the suggestion as his senior officer overheard it.

The scene was set.  The crew was in a fever of anticipation – at least, most of them were.  Even those who had little or no interest in the revivalist end of the modern ‘music scene’ had caught the bug, and were looking forward with varying degrees of anticipation to being present at so momentous an event.


	3. Chapter 3

“Dockin’ complete, Cap’n.”

It was ridiculous.  He’d faced down Xindi reptilians and Klingon mercenaries and felt less nervous.  Captain Archer resisted the urge to look down to check that his uniform was on straight and all the zips were done up.

“Bring them on board, Commander.”

The airlock door hissed open.

There were a couple of burly security types, that was a given.  The other four people waiting to be admitted were the band: three attractive young ladies, all wearing clothing that he guessed was appropriate for the 1980s, plus – at last – the mysterious Ian Westbury, finally reappearing into the light of day.

He was smaller than the captain had somehow expected, but his swagger as he came on board was pronounced.  His hair was a long dark mane, flyaway with electricity, that almost hid the large diamond studs in his ears.  His eyes were an odd shade of greenish-blue, their darkness emphasized by the heavy eyeliner, whilst the color of his mouth more than suggested he was wearing lipstick.

In the environment of the ship, his clothing was positively bizarre.  He was wearing a lemon leather jacket, currently open to display a quantity of necklaces lying atop a black vest bearing the word ‘ _Legend!'_ in gold.  The outfit was completed by a pair of skin-tight leopard-print trousers and high-heeled boots.

Trip was the only other person present.  The dark eyes skipped from him to the captain, and made a judgment.

“Captain Archer, I do believe.”  The accent was quite unlike Malcolm’s precise, upper-class pronunciation.  Attuned to that, for half a second the captain almost failed to recognize his own title, rendered in a lazy drawl as something like ‘Captin Awwcha’.  The hand extended to him was wearing nail varnish, and the handshake was lax.

It was probably just as well that the ship’s security officer had departed a couple of hours earlier to supervise some issue with a new consignment of torpedoes, reflected Jon.  The effort of maintaining the appropriate civility towards a visitor like this would probably have given him a cardiac infarction.

Ian introduced him to the girls, his manner careless.  They hardly seemed to notice and certainly didn’t object.  As each was named, she nodded informally.

“And this is my Chief Engineer, Charles Tucker,” added the captain, feeling that it was hardly polite to ignore the third in command of his ship.

“Aw, I know ‘oo ‘e is!” cried Westbury.  “’Is nickname’s Trip, innit? I read all about it, about wot you all done in that Expanse place.  Pleastermeecha, Trip!”

It seemed that Trip was finding the exotic accent at least as hard to translate.  There was a slight but perceptible pause before he responded somewhat uncertainly that it was a pleasure.

Jon interpreted the look of mingled excitement and bafflement without difficulty, and hid a grin.

“Anyroad, Captin, I fink we’d better be gettin’ along to wherever we’re doin’ the gig, eh?  ‘S bin a while, an’ you know what them roadies are like, the ‘alf of ‘em don’t know an amp from an ‘airdryer!”

“Aww, Ian!”  The blonde drummer poked him languidly in the ribs.

“Only kiddin’, Deb.  You know I’m only kiddin’.”  He winked at the captain.  “’Er bruvver.  ‘E’s in charge of the kit.  ‘E ain’t bad, really.  Knows ‘is stuff.”  Having delivered that tribute, he leaned in confidentially, on a wave of pungent aftershave.  “I did ask, y’know, they said it’d be all right, well, we don’t want people _peepin’_ , right?  Not till the gig starts, right?  I always reckon it spoils fings.  So I ‘ope they mentioned that.”

“Something about it,” admitted Jon.  He’d issued an order that the cargo bay area was to be considered off limits till after the ‘gig’, and let it be known more obliquely that lingering in the corridors in the hope of snatching a sneak peek was also a no-no.  Considering the singer’s effusive manner now, it was hard to reconcile thatwith the way he’d disappeared on the crest of the band’s success and become a total recluse, but no doubt he’d had his reasons.  It was plain that the offer to do this one-off performance for the benefit of _Enterprise_ ’s crew was a gesture of extraordinary munificence, and the captain was determined that nothing should occur that might make their celebrity visitor regret his generosity.

“Aw, thass good then.  They said you’d be okay wiv it.”  They were walking down the corridor by this time, and Westbury gazed around him with open curiosity.  “’S a bit dull, innit?  I mean, issall _grey_.  Maybe you could put a lick o’ paint on it, summat a bit lively.  Brighten the place up a bit, like.”

A slightly waspish retort along the lines of ‘Well, I wouldn’t let you choose the wallpaper’ sprang into Jon’s mind, given the man’s apparent sense of style, but hospitality forbade him to utter it.  More than ever he was thankful that their visitor’s compatriot was safely off the ship.  What Malcolm would have found to say about the ship’s superstructure being found in need of ‘brightening up a bit’ defied the imagination.

Trip, fortunately for general diplomacy, had a more active sense of humor.  There was a faint choking sound from his direction.

“This is where you’ll be doing your ‘gig’.”  They arrived at Cargo Bay 5.   The captain pronounced the unfamiliar word carefully.  “I hope you’ll find everything in order, but if you find you need anything just let us know.”

“I appreciate that, cap’.  I really appreciate it.”  And with a breezy clap on his host’s shoulder, Westbury strolled into the cargo area with his satellites, and the door shut on the mysteries within.

Trip and the captain were left in the corridor, looking blankly at each other.

“Well, you gotta say it’s different,” said Trip with a grin.


	4. Chapter 4

No more was heard from the cargo bay area for the rest of the day; presumably everything there was proceeding uneventfully.  Crewmen who had legitimate business in the area reported that there was the distant buzz of noise from the sound-checks, accompanied by much laughter and the occasionally disastrously-audible burst of bad language.

In the meantime, there was enough to do around the ship for everybody aboard, so that the thought of their guests must of necessity be banished for the time being.  The visit to Jupiter Station was a necessity – no ship of _Enterprise_ ’s size could possibly contain enough supplies to sustain it for five years, even with the sophisticated recycling systems on board – and it involved far more than the engineering checks and upgrades and the restocking of the weapons racks.  Cargo Bays 4 and 5 were for food supplies, but the cases had of necessity to be parked on the station, awaiting loading to start the next day.  In the meantime there were reports to be uploaded to Starfleet’s databanks, diplomatic developments to be discussed, scientific samples to be transferred, and as many done as possible of the rest of the thousand and one tasks that had to be performed in the limited time allowed before the ship resumed her voyage of discovery.  In the absence of his department head, Ensign Müller supervised the bestowal of the first batch of the latest range of torpedoes; Trip being the next senior officer on board, he went to him when the job was completed.  Questioned as to Malcolm’s progress, he reported having a conversation with the _Leutnant_ via the comm system regarding the progress of the remainder of the consignment, and it had apparently been filled with pungent observations he thought it unfitting to repeat verbatim to the _Kapitan._ He was confident, however, that the problem would be overcome by the time his superior officer returned to the ship.

“Yeah, I’ll guess it will,” said Trip, grinning, and dismissed the ensign to return to whatever next required his supervision.  If Malcolm was in that sort of a temper, he defied any obstreperous station-crew to get the better of him.

With so much to do, the time flew past.  Sooner than he would have thought possible, it was time for shift changeover.  The occasion had required some adjustment to the duty rosters, but since they were coupled up, only a skeleton crew were required to report for beta and gamma shifts, and with a bit of give and take on all sides those on duty were mostly those who had no interest in the concert.  The station crewpeople signed off for the day and _Enterprise_ subsided into an expectant quiet.

Talk in the Mess Hall over dinner was of little else.  More than one diner carried portable music devices from whose headphones issued the familiar notes of Fierce Blue Ascot’s more popular tunes. Everyone, it seemed, was eager to behold the legend for themselves.

“I wonder if they’ll come in for dinner?” speculated Travis, eyeing the door hopefully.

“No.  I asked Chef.  They had some stuff sent down.”  Hoshi looked momentarily despondent, but then brightened again.  “I wonder if he’ll do autographs afterwards?”

“Got to!”  Her fellow-ensign was an incurable optimist.  It was evident that he couldn’t conceive of their guest being so curmudgeonly as to reprise his vanishing act the moment the concert was over.  Surely, if he felt that the ship’s achievements merited a special concert, he wouldn’t grudge a few extra moments to talk?

“So what was he like when he came on board?” The helmsman’s eager gaze turned to Trip.  “Did he say much?”

“Some.”  Trip shrugged and rolled his eyes, trying to imagine how to explain the encounter.  “He talks really weird.  That accent ... I could hardly understand some of the things he said.  Maybe you’ll have more luck, Hoshi!”

“You’ll have to offer to act as translator for him!” Travis nudged her with his elbow, and she laughed and elbowed him back.

“Well, I guess I’m finished here.  I should have just about time to shower and change before the fun starts.”  The chief engineer pushed his empty plate away.  “I promised T’Pol I’d fill her in on the cultural side of things this evenin’.”

“A date, Commander?” The comm officer’s eyes twinkled.

“Oh, sure.  Me, her and most of the rest of the crew, and I’ve already warned her to wear earplugs.”  To the sound of his companions’ laughter he left the Mess Hall.  Romantic it certainly wasn’t, but hell, like he’d said to Jon earlier, it was certainly going to be different.


	5. Chapter 5

Subcommander T’Pol blinked around the erstwhile Cargo Bay in bemusement.

The Science Department had furnished her with very effective ear protection, which she had brought along at Commander Tucker’s insistence, even though she’d had had little expectation of having to wear it.  After all, this was a relatively small area compared to most of the venues Humans used to hold musical performances; surely the noise volume would be reduced accordingly?

Well, if it had been, it was hard to notice.  She was strongly of the opinion that Doctor Phlox would disapprove strenuously of a decibel level so high that the deck underfoot was actually _vibrating –_ or at least he probably would have done if he hadn’t been enjoying the concert himself, presumably taking notes on another alien custom that would form the basis of yet another report.After summing up the situation very quickly when she noticed that even before a note was struck the amplifier hum was startlingly loud, she’d put the ear-defenders in after all, and was shortly extremely glad that she had.  Why on earth did Humans feel that music performed live had to be so loud it was bordering on physically painful?  She would have to remember to ask the commander afterwards.  There was no possible point in trying to ask him now; if she bawled at the top pitch of her lungs into his ear at point blank range, he still wouldn’t be able to hear a word.

She glanced at the captain, seated on her other side.  From his expression, he wasn’t particularly relishing the volume either, though he was somehow maintaining a look of polite enjoyment. 

It appeared that most of the younger members of the crew were deriving far more pleasure from the occasion than their senior officers were (though Trip’s foot was tapping, and he was bright-eyed with excitement).  Although the sound was quite inaudible through the din, almost all the audience were clapping or dancing; the present song had moved the performance into a higher tempo. 

Westbury moved across the stage with long, confident strides, caressing the microphone.  _“I’m so tall, I’m so tall...”_ Under the mane of dark hair and the soft velvet hat perched on top of it, his dark eyes gleamed.  Perhaps it was from the irony of the song, for he was not physically impressive; most of the men of the crew would have overtopped him. 

At the end of the first song he had greeted the audience and introduced the other members of his group.  She’d had difficulty at first in understanding his accent, which was not one she had ever encountered on Earth; at a guess it was a regional one, and not one from a sub-culture represented in Starfleet.  His air was equally strange, a mixture of assurance and inappropriate familiarity with persons to whom he had never even been introduced.

She knew that many popular songs in Human culture had little or no meaning, but the current one seemed to be excelling itself.  Its premise (insofar as it possessed one) seemed to center around the singer’s uncertainty as to his physical position as much as to his mental one. _“Up and down and up the wall, I’m up the bloody tree...”_  Still, melodically speaking it was an improvement on the first one, which had apparently been one of Fierce Blue Ascot’s greatest successes – a fact announced by the roar of approval which had greeted the crashing, discordant guitar chord in the darkness before the lights came on.  The title (apparently) of _When Doves Cry_ had made as little sense to her as the rest of the lyrics, insofar as she could distinguish them.

The already rather low cultural standards of the performance fell still further with the next item.  Even given the fact that her years aboard _Enterprise_ had dulled the edges of her capacity to be surprised by Humans, the evident success of a song entitled _Sexuality_ still made her grateful that Ambassador Soval was not present to be included in the invitation.  What the ambassador would have made of the overtly suggestive lyrics and the gestures that accompanied them was positively unimaginable.

The singer’s costume was bizarre.  He was wearing a long, dark blue velvet coat, tightly fitted to the waist and flaring over the hips, plus skin-tight trousers of the same fabric.  Under the coat an open-necked satin shirt spilled a quantity of lace around the lapels and revealed that the chest beneath it bore a quantity of hair as well as several somewhat ostentatious gold necklaces. 

“Fank you!  Fank you!” he cried at the rapturous applause that greeted the end of the song – applause in which she joined politely rather than enthusiastically.  “Now, ‘ow about somebody tellin’ me sumfink you’d like us to do for yer?”

‘Bring the performance to a swift and merciful end’ was not a polite suggestion, so she refrained from making it, contenting herself merely with the thought that Lieutenant Reed had shown extreme wisdom in making his escape while he could.  Fortunately for the singer’s ego, however, others were eager to shout out their preferred songs: most, of course, were keen for the band’s hallmark song ‘Under The Moon’. 

Almost as many, however, demanded another entitled ‘Leave Me To Bleed’, and whether by acceptance or design this was the next on which the group embarked.

Westbury’s behavior now became singularly ambiguous.  Although he often appeared to be flirting with the female members of the band, certainly his performance now more than suggested quite a different sexual orientation.  Naturally this was his affair entirely, and she was completely non-judgmental of anyone attracted to others of their own gender, but he seemed to flicker between one persona and another with quite bewildering ease and rapidity, as much an actor as a singer.  In keeping with the words of the song, his demeanor had changed too.  His eyes, smoldering in the heavy black eye-liner that swept almost up to the outer edges of his eyebrows, cast sly and sidelong looks at the audience.  He prowled across the stage, sensual and venomous.

She had noticed that he wore, and occasionally played, an instrument called a ‘keytar’ – a combination between a keyboard and a guitar.  Part way through the next song he abandoned it, taking up position at an ordinary keyboard.  The long slender fingers stroked the keys with unexpected and surprising skill; he could, of course, be miming but the small frown of concentration suggested otherwise.  Perhaps, she speculated, he had abandoned his career in the world of ‘pop’ to concentrate on a form of music that was more demanding as well as being far more aesthetically pleasing to the ear.  It would make sense.  This song was of a slightly different genre to the previous ones: more aggressive, more raucous.  The lyrics spoke of guilt and self-loathing: _‘Erase myself – and let go of what I’ve done...’_

The concert wound on to its close, culminating in the performance for which the audience had been baying: the evergreen ‘Under The Moon’.  A holographic projection appeared over the stage, on which a telephone number scrolled every time the singer implored the object of his affections to call him, and as the song ended it appeared to explode, showering the stage with pieces of silver foil – doubtless, in reality, dispensed from a cunningly concealed container in the gantry above it.

The applause was deafening.  There might be only a comparatively small number of people present, but they more than made up for that by their cheers and stamping and clapping.  Flushed and disheveled from his exertions on stage, Mr. Westbury bowed and smiled, gesturing to the other members of his group to take their due share of the appreciation.  “Fank you!” he called again.  “’Been a pleasure!”

He stepped backwards, and three bright fireworks ignited directly in front of where he had been standing, and the lights went out.  When the lights came back on, a few seconds later, and the eyes readjusted, he was gone, and so were the members of the band.

Ian Westbury, it seemed, was to remain an enigma.


	6. Chapter 6

It would not, of course, have been polite for the guests to leave without receiving the thanks of the captain.

Once Jon’s ears had recovered somewhat from the battering they had received, he made his way to the nearby room that had been prepared for the band to retire to after the performance.  There was talk and laughter within, and as the door opened he was not really surprised to see that the blonde drummer was sitting in the singer’s lap.  The blue coat had been removed, along with the shirt, and Westbury was swigging beer out of a bottle – at a guess, quenching the thirst generated by performing under the fierce overhead lighting on stage.  Although the mat of chest hair obscured some of the detail, his upper body was surprisingly muscular, and a tattooed snake around one upper arm emphasized the bulge of the bicep in it.

“Captin!”  He greeted the newcomer with delight, giving the woman on his lap a smack on the butt to dislodge her – a familiarity she seemed to accept as completely normal.  “’Ow’d’yer enjoy the gig then, mate?  Oh – ‘oo’s this then?”

“This is my First Officer, Sub-Commander T’Pol.”

The singer rose to his feet, and came forward to be introduced.  “I wouldn’a’ fawt this was sumfin’ yer average Vulcan’d be interested in, Sub-Commarnder,” he said cheerfully.  Nevertheless, he was watching her intently, with something rather more than the intensity of someone being introduced for the first time to an ‘alien’. Almost – if there could have been any reason to do so – with appeal.

T’Pol gazed back at him with equally fixed interest.  “It has been a most ... educational experience, Mister Westbury,” she replied.

“Norrexac’ly your sort’a music, I ’spect,” he suggested.

“On the contrary.”  She clasped her hands behind her back, and there was now the suspicion of a faint smile on her mouth.  “I have always believed in appreciating talent, even when one discovers it in the most unexpected places.”

“I fink that was a total compliment!” he cried, and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek.

Jon blinked, but a moment later the singer turned to him.  “Oh, ‘fore I forget!  I _don’t_ normally do this sort’a fing, y’know?  But a little bird said.  So just for once I’ll do it.”  He delved in a pocket of his apparently spray-on pants, and brought forth with some difficulty a laminated photograph, which he handed to the captain.  “I’d be dead grateful if you’d give that to the lovely lady, Cap’.”

Jon took the photo.  It had on it, scrawled in silver ink, ‘To the gorgeous Hoshi Sato, love, Ian. Xxx’

“You know Hoshi?” he asked in surprise.

“The little bird does.” Ian favored him with a large wink.  “An’ if she’s gorgeous, which _‘e_ reckons she is, I fink it’s just a nice fing to do to make ‘er appy!”

“I am sure Ensign Sato will appreciate the gesture,” said T’Pol.  “Though she might appreciate it even more if you were to give it to her in person.”

He shook his head vigorously, looking regretful.  “Nah.  See, I seen you got loads’a really pre’y girls on board, right?  An’ I reckon I don’t wanna make any of ‘em jealous.  So if yer could give ‘Oshi that on the quiet, Cap’, I reckon that’d be for the best.”

Deborah had been consulting her chronometer.  “’Ay, Ian.  Time we were goin’ innit?  You know ‘ow that bloke on the station was goin’ on about us ‘oldin’ up the loadin’.”

“Ar.  Bloody ‘ell, ‘e dinn’arf.  Cap’, I reckon we better scarper.  Fanks a million for ‘avin us.”  He extended a hand, and Captain Archer shook it.

“Thank you for the concert,” he said somewhat weakly.

“My pleasure, Cap’!  Absolutely my pleasure!”

Moments later, they were all at the airlock where the shuttle waited to take them back to Earth.  Possibly it was sheer coincidence that Travis and Hoshi happened to be wandering down the corridor, and received an airy wave of acknowledgment that had them both beaming.

“That was Hoshi Sato,” said Jon, as the two of them rounded the next corner, not without many a backwards glance.

“Blimey, she _was_ a bi’ of all right!”  Westbury stared appreciatively after the departed comms officer.

“I am sure she will be delighted to learn that you think so,” said T'Pol drily, with the faintest shadow of an irony that made Jon glance at her.   It was hardly something that the Vulcan would normally discuss with a junior officer, but perhaps in the circumstances she felt it was a compliment that should be passed on.  Maybe he could say something along those lines when he gave her the autograph.

The airlock door opened; the shuttle was waiting.  At a guess, the process of dismantling the stage and sound system would already be underway, much to the satisfaction of the logistics team across on the station waiting for the cargo bays to be cleared.

The band were clearly not in the habit of taking lengthy or formal farewells.  With only a few words they departed, accompanied by their minders; and Jon was conscious of a sense of mingled disappointment and relief as the airlock door closed.  He had his ship back, and normality could return.

He turned around and found T'Pol looking at him with a hint of … curiosity?  Amusement?  Certainly there was something in her gaze that he couldn’t quite identify, but she secured the airlock with her usual calm efficiency and turned away with the air of one who has nothing she wishes to say.  He was used to that, so he fell into step beside her.

History was all very well, he reflected, but when you were in charge of a starship, then ‘normal’ was very much the way he preferred things.


	7. Chapter 7

“The captain wishes to speak to you, Ensign.”

Hoshi had barely sat down with her breakfast when T'Pol paused beside her table and passed on the message.

Trip, Travis and Malcolm all looked up in surprise, much as Hoshi did.  It was unusual for Captain Archer to speak to any of his staff before their shift started, unless he had invited them to have breakfast with him – and he would not spring such an invitation on them at the last moment.

T'Pol’s expression was uncommunicative, but there was nothing in her tone to suggest that this was anything of particular concern.  “I am sure he will wait till you have finished eating,” she added.

“It’s okay, Sub-commander, I’d rather find out what he wants first,” said the young woman, and hurried away to the captain’s private dining room, her expression faintly anxious.

Before the Vulcan could turn away, Trip drew her attention to a subject that had been under discussion before her arrival.  He was in the middle of one of his favorite pastimes – lieutenant-baiting – and was keen to recruit as many supporters as he could.  So far he’d succeeded enough to have Malcolm put his fork down and look irritated, and this success was one he wanted to build on.

“Don’t _you_ think there was a real look of Lieutenant Reed here about that guy last night?” he asked, in the tone of one who thinks there can hardly be any doubt about it.

Malcolm crossed his arms.  This was another hopeful sign.  He had already expatiated on the topic of the ‘supposed resemblance’ between himself and the hated celebrity at some length, and although even Trip knew it could be no more than a coincidence, it was far too good a sore spot not to rub it a little more.

T'Pol considered.

Travis opened his mouth to agree, observed the signs, and wisely shut it again.  He had targeting practice scheduled later that morning with the irate lieutenant, and doubtless wanted to complete it without getting his head bitten off.

The Vulcan’s gaze drifted to the tactical officer’s wrathful visage and studied it.  Then she turned to Trip.

“As First Officer, I receive copies of the security reports regarding all those who come on board the ship.  I have reviewed them as I always do.  You must be aware that the security protocols would flag up any resemblance to any known person in Starfleet files.”

Trip looked crestfallen.  Although there was no reason why these files should be routed to him, he knew that they were indeed routinely scanned by automatic recognition programs.  Any alert would have been picked up immediately by the ship’s conscientious XO.

“Furthermore,” pursued T'Pol, “I spoke with Mister Westbury after the concert.  It is hardly likely that _I_ would fail to notice any particularly striking resemblance, if such a thing existed.”

Malcolm nodded, smirking.  “Finally, somebody around here is talking sense!” he remarked to nobody in particular.

At that moment the door to the captain’s dining room opened, and Hoshi came out again.  In contrast to her slightly worried demeanor when she went in, now she was fairly dancing.

“Just _look!_ ” she squealed as she reached the table again.  In her hand was a photograph, scrawled across with silver ink.

Travis and Trip almost banged heads in their eagerness to see it.  Even Malcolm deigned to let it be seen that his interest was – however reluctantly – piqued.

“Hoshi, he _never_ did autographs!” breathed Travis reverently.

From the English corner of the table came muttered words, of whom the last three were undoubtedly ‘ugly poncing git.’  It appeared that the lieutenant had gotten a better look at the guy he was being accused of resembling, and was even more displeased than ever.  Perhaps he didn’t like the hat, but certainly the lipstick was a bit much.

And now you came to look, perhaps the resemblance wasn’t as striking as you might have thought at first.  For sure Malcolm Reed would never have been guilty of sashaying across a stage in skin-tight velvet and lace, and as for that rigid back loosening sufficiently to give the hips such a sensual, provocative sway…

… Well, it just wasn’t going to happen, was it?

“Come to think of it, Loo-tenant, maybe you don’t look all that much like him after all,” Trip conceded blithely.

Malcolm was not nearly naïve enough to mistake this for a compliment.  He glared, waiting for the punch line.

It wasn’t long in coming.

“…He’s good-lookin’ as well as talented.”

Hoshi and Travis oohed.  Even T'Pol looked slightly pained.

The gray eyes narrowed to gun-slits.

Somewhat belatedly, Trip remembered that his target practice was scheduled right after Travis’s.  And that as Weapons Officer, Malcolm had the right to organize extra practice sessions for any of the crew for whom he deemed it necessary.  Two facts which _certainly_ wouldn’t have slipped the Brit’s mind, and weren’t likely to over the next couple of hours.

Vistas of spending every spare hour for the next two years sweating in the effort to hit a moving target with a cunningly misaligned phase pistol rose up before his horrified gaze.  Surely Malcolm wouldn’t be that vindictive … would he?

In a panic he watched an oblique smile slide slowly onto the Englishman’s face: the knowing smirk that said, _You don’t know the half of it, Mister Tuckah_.

He looked at T'Pol; no help there.  Travis was watching him in wide-eyed sympathy as if mentally numbering him already among the dearly-departed.  Hoshi, however … _Hoshi, quit dribblin’ over that damn photo and get me out of this!_

As though hearing his anguished mental shriek, the comm officer looked up from the photograph, and now she was gazing fixedly at Malcolm.

It was evident from her first words, however, that Trip’s imminent doom was not foremost among her thoughts.

“The captain told me Ian said someone had asked him to do this for me, but he didn’t say who.”

The tactical officer shrugged.  “Don’t ask me.  I wasn’t even on board when they arrived.”

It was unnecessary for anyone to point out that he had certainly been on Jupiter Station when the shuttle docked there for security checks – in view of recent protest movements, some of whom Starfleet was taking seriously, no craft from Earth would be allowed to go straight to the ship without being screened.

Hoshi’s specialty might be languages, but she certainly knew enough mathematics to add two and two together.  Without more ado she leaned over and gave Malcolm a smacking kiss on the cheek.

“Ensign!”  He tried, probably not very hard and certainly not very successfully, to look outraged by this very public breach of protocol.  It was probably damned hard to look outraged when you had a pretty woman giving you the starry-eyed look like Hoshi was now, with her hand resting on his arm.

Trip noted hopefully that the expression of Machiavellian intent on the armory officer’s face had now been replaced by one that – in ordinary circumstances – would have elicited a certain amount of teasing later on.  His kindness unearthed, Malcolm was looking … yep, ‘bashful’.  In the present circumstances, however, Trip was firmly of the opinion that the safest option all round was to fade quietly out of the picture.  Who knew?   A while longer of exposure to the starry gaze might put Malcolm in such a good mood that he’d even forget about target practice altogether.

Well.  Maybe _that_ was a mite unlikely.

But there again, the strangest things happen occasionally.

 

**The End**

 

**Author's Note:**

> All reviews and comments are deeply appreciated.


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